Too Wicked to Wed

by Cheryl Holt

“If Patricia takes you in—and you’re being overly optimistic about how stubborn she can be—what will you do?”

  “I haven’t a clue, but we’ll figure it out. I’ll seek employment; that’s for certain. I won’t twiddle my thumbs like these lazy bastards.” He glanced at the bejeweled crowd; then his astute gaze landed on Luke. “Come with me, Captain.”

  “I’m having the time of my life.” A lie. “Why would I depart?”

  “You don’t belong here, either.” Robert laid a hand on Luke’s arm, a comforting gesture intended to soften a blow. “I hear them gossiping about you. They’ll never let you breach the walls and become one of them. Run away with me. Don’t give them a chance to hurt you with their rejection.”

  “Hurt me? For heaven’s sake, you talk as if I’m a swooning schoolgirl.”

  “I can sense how much this matters to you, but whatever dream you wish would come true, it isn’t going to occur. Your father is a horse’s ass—”

  “You don’t have to convince me. I discovered it on my own.”

  “His peers say you’re a criminal, putting on airs. They don’t care about your valor, or your assistance to the Royal Navy, or anything else. There’s a nasty undercurrent of complaint about the Prince’s scheme to honor you. They’re claiming it shouldn’t be done, and they’re his lords. In the end, he’ll listen to them.”

  “Their posturing doesn’t bother me in the slightest.”

  “Yes, it does. Leave with me. Please!” he implored. “Helen would welcome you back. You were a beast to her, though, so you’d probably have to beg.”

  “Helen?” he mused as if he didn’t know who she was. “You mean Miss Mansfield?”

  “Don’t pretend with me. You love her. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Luke gasped. “Me? Love Miss Mansfield? If that’s what you believe, you’ve tipped off your rocker.”

  “Have I?” More quietly, he urged, “Fix this, Luke. For her and for yourself.”

  Luke was confounded by how he should respond. Robert was correct: He would never be granted a knighthood, wouldn’t spend the rest of his days hobnobbing with his father’s conceited associates.

  Luke had always grasped that the rich closed ranks and excluded inferiors like himself, so deep down he had no illusions. Yet he couldn’t relinquish the possibility that something more could transpire, that he might belong, after all. His yearning was like that for a feast that was just out of reach, and he couldn’t stop trying to sit at the table.

  “I have to stay.” He shrugged, unable to explain further.

  “And I have to go,” Robert replied. “I’m sure it sounds strange, but I have this eerie feeling that Pat’s in trouble, that she needs me.”

  The hairs prickled on Luke’s neck. Hadn’t he been having the same premonitions of dread? How was it that Robert had become the sort of man who would act on them, while Luke was content to gad about, sipping champagne?

  “I understand,” Luke offered. “It’s been a pleasure, Robert.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “If you change your mind and decide to return, I’d be glad to have you.”

  “That’s good to know. Thank you again, Captain. For everything.”

  As if he’d done nothing worth mentioning, he waved off Robert’s praise. Robert studied him, cataloguing his features; then, without a farewell, he spun and left.

  Luke observed him as he meandered through the crowd, and as he vanished, whispers drifted into the void caused by his exit. The snobs were angry that Robert had dared to attend, angry that Luke was among them and they were forced to socialize with him.

  One fellow was especially incensed. “Filthy pirates!” he huffed. “Who does Roswell think he is, bringing his bastard into our midst?”

  Their comments rolled off, like water over a waterfall, but the glimmer of the evening had worn away. He was surrounded by hundreds of revelers, yet he was so alone, and the isolation was killing him. His infatuation for Helen reared up, choking him with his inexplicable desire to be with her, and he slipped out into an empty hall, seeking a secluded parlor and a fortifying glass of brandy.

  With ease, he located a deserted salon and he entered, only to stumble on his father, kissing a fetching girl who was young enough to be his granddaughter. The Duke had a wife—his duchess—safely tucked away at home. His mistress was in the ballroom entertaining his guests, and he was off cavorting.

  The man was a dog!

  “I trust I’m not interrupting anything,” Luke said as he strolled in.

  The two lovers jumped apart, the girl frantic, the Duke nonchalant.

  The situation was rather comical, but Luke failed to see the humor. His own mother had once been an innocent maiden like this one, until she’d started sneaking off with the handsome Duke. The notion made Luke incredibly irate and—to his surprise—incredibly sad.

  “Hello, Luke,” the Duke greeted a tad too jovially. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to. I haven’t seen you all night.”

  Luke scowled at the girl. “Your nanny is searching for you, so you’d better be off. If she finds you in here, there’ll be the devil to pay.”

  She scurried out, as the Duke sighed and murmured, “So many women, so little time.”

  “Can’t you keep your trousers buttoned?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Maybe because your actions are . . . are . . .” He nearly said wrong, but in light of his own sexual misbehavior, it was hardly the appropriate word. Instead he settled on, “Because there are consequences for the women you select.”

  “I don’t select them,” the Duke indignantly maintained. “They throw themselves at me. They always have. Why would I refuse what’s freely bestowed?”

  “Why indeed?” Luke went to the sideboard and poured them each a hefty drink.

  “I’ve heard of some of your antics,” the Duke needled, “so don’t be sanctimonious. You know how it is.”

  “I definitely do.”

  “Like father, like son, eh?”

  How pathetic! How awful to be included in such a despicable duo!

  “Have you ever worried about any of them?” Luke queried.

  The Duke looked confused. “About who? My paramours? Why would I?”

  “Some of them have babies, you fool!”

  “Not lately. I made my mistakes when I was a boy. As I matured, I learned to be more careful.”

  “Bully for you.”

  At being pitched into a basket with the Duke’s other castoffs Luke was extremely irked. He speculated as to his other half siblings. Were there dozens? Hundreds? Perhaps there were thousands of the Duke’s offspring scattered across England and suffering the stain of the Roswell paternity.

  “How many children have you sired?”

  “Two legitimate ones,” the Duke answered, “but I suppose you’re inquiring about the bastards.”

  “Yes.” Luke rolled his eyes. “How many?”

  “I haven’t any idea. I’ve had a few come forward recently with their hands out.” He peered at Luke and hastily added, “Not you, of course. You haven’t asked me for anything. Yet.”

  “That’s because I don’t want anything.”

  The Duke shrugged. “You all want something.”

  “Not me.”

  Luke assessed his father and had to acknowledge that he’d never gotten to know the man. They’d fraternized extensively, but there was a clear barrier between them that the Duke wouldn’t permit Luke to cross.

  The Duke had a son and heir who was also named William, the two boys conceived less than a year apart, but Luke would never be allowed to meet his half brother. Nor would Luke ever set foot in the Duke’s home. The galas the Duke had arranged were hosted by his mistress at the house the Duke had purchased for her. The male guests brought their paramours—not their wives—with the general consensus being that Luke was too disgraceful to be presented to a respectable female.

  Luke had tolerated the slights, but why? In any prior circ
umstance, he wouldn’t have brooked any discourtesy. He kept on so that he could be with the Duke, but when he didn’t appear to have any redeeming qualities, was it worth the bother it took to continue a connection?

  “Do you ever think about my mother?” Luke wasn’t certain why he’d raised the indiscreet topic, but suddenly the Duke’s reply mattered very much.

  “Oh . . . aah . . .” The Duke was flustered by the question. “Yes, I reflect on her occasionally—as I do on all of the women with whom I’ve dallied. I love women. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t have many memories of her. She died when I was five.”

  “Really?”

  “When her guardian discovered that she was pregnant, he tossed her out without a penny.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “I was left on the streets of London, to fend for myself. I’ve always been curious if she came to you for help.”

  “It was so long ago, Luke.” He casually sipped his liquor. “I’d have to check my records.”

  “If she’d asked, you’d have assisted her. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Why . . . why . . . yes, I assume I would have.”

  The tepid assurance embarrassed them both.

  “It was difficult for me,” Luke admitted. “I was too little to be abandoned. I missed her; I needed her.”

  “You’ve done quite well, though,” the Duke blandly responded, “despite your rough beginning.”

  “I recollect that she had the prettiest brown hair and the biggest green eyes. That’s what I remember most about her. How about you?”

  “Oh yes, she had the most beautiful brown hair I’d ever seen.”

  Luke sat very still; then he laughed miserably. He was such an idiot! Such a pitiable, stupid idiot! Why was he wasting his energy on this harsh, callous oaf? Why was he lingering—day after bloody day—hoping the exalted prick would throw him a bone?

  Luke downed his brandy and stood. “Well, Harold”—since it would annoy and offend, he used the Duke’s given name—“I’ll concede that it’s been interesting, but not much more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve had enough of you, and I’ve had enough of this.”

  The Duke stood, too. “Quit speaking in riddles. I have no idea what you’re saying.”

  “My mother had blond hair and blue eyes. Just like you. Just like me.”

  “Oh . . . hmm . . .” The Duke had the decency to blush.

  “You don’t have the faintest notion of who she was, do you?”

  The Duke hesitated, then confessed, “I’m sorry, Luke. There’ve been so many over the years.”

  It was probably the only genuine moment they would ever share, the only chance he’d have for the real Harold Westmoreland to peek through the bluster of the Duke of Roswell.

  “It’s all right,” Luke said. “I’m a good judge of character. When I first met you, I decided you were an ass, and you’ve merely confirmed that I was correct.”

  He moved toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” the Duke demanded.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “When will you return?”

  “I won’t.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I persuaded myself that this was the life I wanted”—he gestured around the ornate chamber—“but it’s not. I was happy with how things were before.”

  “What a perfectly ludicrous remark. We have soirees scheduled for the next month, while the Prince ponders whether to receive you or not. If he takes a fancy to you, there’ll be money and property involved.”

  “It will never happen, so you can advise your fussy friends that they don’t have to worry.”

  “About what?”

  “About me joining their ranks. I’d rather poke my eye out with a sharp stick than become one of you.”

  At the slur the Duke bristled. “There’s no need for insults.”

  Luke spun round and was almost through the door when the Duke called, “Luke, wait!”

  Luke stopped. “What?”

  “Will I . . . will I ever see you again?”

  There was a melancholy note in the Duke’s voice, as if he actually wanted to know, as if he’d liked Luke more than he’d let on. With how aloof he’d been, why would he seek a subsequent encounter?

  “If I’m ever in London again—which I doubt I will be—I’ll look you up.” He wasn’t positive if he would or not.

  “You’re leaving the country?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well . . . write . . . or something.”

  “I’m an orphan who had no schooling. I never learned how to write.” It was a cheap parting shot, but he couldn’t resist taking it. “And give the Prince a message for me, would you?”

  “What is it?”

  “Tell him I thank him for considering the knighthood, but—”

  “Don’t be a damned fool! I won’t allow you to decline such an honor. If it’s offered, you’ll accept it.”

  “No, I won’t. I don’t want his snooty award. But inform him that I was proud to help out, and if I ever stumble on any of his sailors drowning again, I’ll rescue them. I don’t mind.”

  He whirled away and strolled down the hall and out of the mansion, and as he reached the front steps, he was close to breaking down and blubbering like a babe. He’d always fantasized about his father, but it had been a boy’s dream, fueled on cold, rainy nights when he was desperately hungry and alone.

  When had he grown to be so sentimental?

  He loitered on the walk, the orchestra playing inside, the candles blazing in the chandeliers, the carriages lined up for blocks.

  Where should he go? What should he do?

  The large, gaudy house he’d bought was a few blocks away. It was still mostly unfurnished, and the dim, empty rooms held no appeal whatsoever, so his ship was his likely destination. It was moored in the harbor. He could muster the crew; then he’d set off to . . . to . . .

  Where?

  With a start, he realized that he couldn’t bear to go away.

  As long as he was in London, his feet firmly planted on English soil, he could jump on his horse and head to Mansfield Abbey. If he hoisted the sails and left, each cut through the waves would fling him farther and farther from where he truly yearned to be.

  A horse’s hooves clopped toward him, and he peered through the darkness to see Robert approaching. He was dressed and ready for his trip to Mansfield.

  Luke moved out to the street as Robert reined in.

  “What are you doing out here?” Robert asked. “Shouldn’t you be inside with your father?”

  “He and I have had all the chats we’ll ever have.”

  “Good. He was an awful man.”

  “Not awful.” Luke felt the word was too disloyal. “Just different from us.”

  “Yes, very different from us.”

  “Return to my house.”

  “No, I must be off at once.”

  “Just do it, Robert. I’ll meet you there.”

  “I can’t dawdle!”

  “I’m going to change my clothes and pack,” Luke surprised him by saying. “Then I’m coming with you.”

  “Have you had a sudden attack of conscience?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  “Maybe there is,” Luke concurred. “Now, be off. You mentioned that you were fretting over Patricia. Well, for weeks my intuition has been pestering me about Helen.”

  Robert stiffened with alarm. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I thought it would sound crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy. I can feel in my bones that something’s happened.”

  “So can I.” Luke studied the starry sky. “The moon’s up and full. We can travel all night.”

  “My plan exactly.”

  Luke took off at a dead run, Robert loping along beside him.

  22

  What a day!”


  “I’m exhausted.”

  “So am I.”

  Helen pushed back from the dining table and tried her best to smile at Adrian, but it was difficult to feign merriment when she was so unhappy. It was his wedding day, and though it wasn’t a real marriage, she wanted it to be as special as she could make it. After all, how many times did a man marry in his life?

  Carriage wheels sounded in the drive, and Adrian peeked out to see the vicar pulling away.

  “I’m glad he’s gone,” Adrian said.

  “I have to agree.”

  “Did he seem a tad zealous to you?” He gave a mock shudder.

  “He takes his duties very seriously.”

  “I’ve always hated men like that.”

  They both chuckled, though Helen’s voice was strained. She’d never felt more isolated. Westmoreland had abandoned her. Patricia had fled, having declined to stay for the ceremony. With Archie’s reappearance, most of the servants had quit, so many walking out that Helen had barely been able to get her wedding dinner served. Those who’d remained had the rest of the day and evening off as a bribe to persuade them to keep on at their posts.

  Even the maid Peg had left, and it was a sorry statement on Helen’s situation that she missed the dour, slothful girl. At that very moment, if Peg had strolled in, she would have been a welcome sight.

  “It’s so quiet,” Helen murmured.

  “We’re all alone.”

  “Except for my brother. Where is he?”

  Archie had attended the brief ceremony. Looking glum and resolute, he’d dawdled at the rear of the library and had signed as a witness, but she hadn’t seen him since. He’d refused her invitation to dine, which had actually been a relief.

  “I believe he’s chatting with your friend Patricia.”

  “Patricia? I thought she was on her way to London.”

  “She tried to go, but she was detained.”

  At Adrian’s peculiar tone she glanced up, and she was surprised to find him assessing her strangely. She couldn’t pin down the expression—it might have been rage or annoyance—but it frightened her, and she shivered, which was silly.

  She’d been acquainted with Adrian for ages and got on with him so well. If she was perceiving unusual characteristics, it was likely caused by fatigue and stress.